Angel's Lament
by Cricket Spinner
Summary: The Phantom goes cape to skirt with diva turned detective Irene Adler Norton. Much Victorian snark. And Sherlock Holmes. Eventually.
1. A New Case

Angel's Lament 

"_Under the weight of your wings, you are a god and whatever I want you to be, and I wonder if you are truly as beautiful as I believe…" Anna Nalick,_ In My Head

A/N: This is a crossover between the Phantom of the Opera and Carole Nelson Douglas' Irena Adler novels. (Yes, the Sherlock Holmes stories' Irene Adler)

Practicality is forcing me to use the latest movie version for the Phantom timeline. (Read: I don't own _Phantom_ or the original book.) I will, however use some tidbits from them.

Alright, a LOT of the background for the Sherlock Holmes universe is from Carole Nelson Douglas' Irene Adler mysteries, so some of the facts may change from what you are familiar with, and Dr. Watson will most likely NOT make an appearance.

As to the timeline, the story, due to the rather unforgiving Irene Adler timeline and plots, will have to begin in the autumn of 1889, nineteen years later than the movie, roughly ten after Leroux. I'm sorry, but it had to be done. The story begins just before the gala performance, and a few months after _Spider Dance_, the eighth Irene Adler novel.

Disclaimer: Irene Adler characters belong to Carole Nelson Douglas (sort of…) Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber own the Phantom characters and plot line. Susan Kay owns Ayesha, should she choose to appear. I own any random minor OCs I come up with, and Allison Montgomery. Sherlock Holmes is the tricky question. Technically public domain, but he's an I.A. character., so…

Chapter One- A New Case

"_Melancholy and cool kind of bittersweet love on repeat, I'm echoing all your philosophies..." Anna Nalick, _In My Head

My dear friend Irene Adler was reading the note in her hand with a contented, cat-like smile on her face. Oh dear. The last time I saw that smile; she had embarked on a highly dangerous plan that nearly got her killed. And forced me to turn to That Man, also known as Sherlock Holmes, for help. I do hope to avoid that type of situation again, though it _will_ most likely happen.

"Nell, you do remember Mr. Dvořák?" she asked.

"Yes, I do, the composer who was so enamored of your singing. What does Mr. Dvořák have to do with anything?" I was growing worried. Irene's mentor was currently in Bohemia, and that was one of the three places I have no desire to visit again, New York City and Transylvania being the other two.

"He has procured us three tickets to see the Opera Populaire's latest production of Hannibal. Apparently there is a new lead soprano." Irene's warm brown eyes seemed to gleam slightly. Oh dear indeed. Some dratted mystery was involved.

"And why is that an occasion to look like Lucifer should he eat Casanova?" I asked archly, referring to my lazy black cat and foul-mouthed parrot. "I don't suppose the old soprano was found poisoned?"

Irene laughed at this, furthering my worries. "Nothing as dramatic as that. She merely had a backdrop fall on her, and refuses to work until she is convinced that no one wishes her ill. Mr. Dvořák recommended me to the managers, knowing my fondness for such little mysteries, and they wish me to clear up this little matter. It is perfectly simple."

I held back a most unladylike snort at that. "Irene, I highly doubt that it is as simple as that, given that they wish to seek outside aid."

Irene looked at me impishly. "The opera house _is_ rumored to be haunted, and several such incidents have already happened, over the course of three years."

I knew something like this would happen. Nothing is ever simple, not with Irene around.

"Irene, when is this gala?" I asked, half dreading the answer. "And why are we attending it at all?"

Irene looked at me. "Tonight. And we need to see this new singer. She's extraordinarily young, only sixteen. I wonder at her having the voice for it, covering even one night for a prima donna is something few, if any, her age could do."

A/N: Way shorter than I wanted it to be, dang it! Oh, well, look for Chapter Two, Little Lotte, coming soon.

-Cricket.


	2. Little Lotte

Angel's Lament

A/N: Sorry for the delay, I ended up rewriting this a lot! And a small bit of Erik. (Grin)

Note: The Baron mentioned here is Godfrey's (and Irene and Nell's) employer. And no one flame me on how Irene learned to sing, you guys are phans and, honestly, that is VERY close to how Christine learns from Erik. And it's CND canon.

Chapter Two-Little Lotte

"Christine, do you believe?" Meg Giry, Movieverse Phantom

Nell 

I will not go into description of the gala performance, as such things are better heard than I write. Also, to be frank, as a former Temple typist, my need for accuracy would force me to ask Irene for the proper terms, something that would be more struggle than it's worth.

After the gala, however, Irene marched me over to the dressing room of Miss Christine Daaë. The Baron de Rothschild cornered Godfrey. Why do I have the feeling that he will be leaving soon?

"We must see this young woman to get to the bottom of this." Was all she said.

"Irene, you are acting like this is an actual mystery, not just an over-excitable diva throwing a toddler's fit!"

"Perhaps it is, Nell." Irene's eyes, normally such a warm brown as to seem golden, were now a flinty dark brown. Oh, dear. She knocked on the young singer's door.

"Come in," called the slightly raspy voice behind the door. Irene opened the door.

"Hello, Miss Daaë. I am Irene Adler-Norton, I daresay the managers have told you I may have to talk to you."

"Yes, they have," the young woman said softly, looking nervous. I smiled reassuringly.

"I was wondering who your teacher was," She asked quietly, an intent look upon her face. I had to admit to curiosity on as to why Irene chose to ask that curiosity.

Then Irene's past came back to me. The maestro, a teacher who believed that Irene's best interests were at heart, had hypnotized her to forget a devastating event that had silenced her voice. It had the side effect of blurring the memories of most of her childhood, and allowed him to train her in an amazing amount of time.

If Irene believed this to be the case in Miss Daaë, I had little doubt that her teacher would be facing grave consequences.

"My teacher is the Angel of Music."

Oh, my. I am a parson's daughter, and religious by nature, but even I drew the line at angelic visitation. Irene's theory, or what I believed to be Irene's theory, was more plausible.

"My dear Miss Daaë, surely, you don't believe…" Irene began.

"I do. If you would please leave. Now." The soprano said quietly. To my surprise, Irene nodded.

"Goodbye."

I turned to look at the young woman before I left. Stagehands were moving some piece of scenery, or some such thing, and the room was cast into shadows.

I do not believe I imagined the two gold stars in the mirror.

As surprises seem to enjoy coming in a bunch, I pointed at a figure walking towards the doorway.

"Irene, is Sarah Bernhardt walking around in her painting clothes again?"

Irene's musical laugh rang out. "Well, Nell, I doubt it, as the Divine Sarah is a red head, and rather slimmer. And, I believe, taller.

"Irene, Sarah and yourself are the only women I know who would go out in such clothes for a lark, and you are right next to me."

"No that is the Vicomte de Chagny, if I'm not mistaken."

"Oh." I really must get around to lecturing Irene on her habit of rhyming names.

A/N: (Smile) It's a little longer… REVIEW!


	3. Questions

A/N: Prompted by the odd number of hits and alerts (which, YAY!) this story has been getting lately… I can make this five or six chapters, I suppose. Review if you have suggestions?

Irene stood on the wings of the stage, before requesting a solid walking stick. One was hastily procured, and Irene thumped the innocent walking stick on the wooden stage, listening carefully to the sound it produced. She placed a small marker on corners of what I presumed to be trapdoors.

"Madame Norton, if you wished to see a schematic of the stage, you only had to ask," Mssr. Fermin pointed out.

"I have a theory," Irene said absently. "This building was built during the Commune, was it not?" She turned to one of the firemen curiously.

"Yes, madam," he said. "It took years, on account of the siege."

"And the construction was a disjointed affair, then?" Irene asked, looking up quickly, as if searching for something. Perhaps this mischief maker.

"Yes," he said.

"So it would be quite easy for a skilled builder to have made himself a haven," Irene asked. I looked up from my note taking at that, beginning to see what Irene was thinking.

"And never left?" I asked. "But why?"

"He'd have spent over a decade with this place, through many troubles," Irene mused. "I'd imagine he would have grown quite attached to it." She turned all of her not inconsiderable charm on the poor fireman. "Have you noticed any repairs your coworkers claimed not to do?"

"A few," the man said. "The riggings are never shoddy, even when due for some work. And there was an incident with a trapdoor- the hinges were a mess, figured some idiot stagehand had botched it. One of the men was tasked to fix it, but his wife had just had their first son, so his mind was on other things."

"Quite understandable," I said.

"Yeah, he forgot to do it, and he asked me to do it real early. Only it was already done. Good thing, too. It was one of the spots the dancers land on." He added.

"Which one?" Irene asked. He pointed at one near the center. "I see." She frowned. "Mssrs, I fear you have been paying a bill for a very expensive carpenter."

"He does music, as well," the fireman pointed out. "All the rats talk about it."

"The rats?" I asked in surprise.

"It's what we call the dancers," he explained. "Because they squeak and run whenever one of us comes near."

"Ah," I said from my position near the wings.

Irene looked up at the boards on ropes, which I learned were flies. "Could someone pass through undetected?" she asked.

"If he was quick," a stagehand volunteered. "Or if he hid that death's head of his."

"A man with a cloth cap, then, and a mask," Irene mused. "With athletism… perhaps he was disfigured during the Commune? It would be a good reason to hide from the rest of the world… you have been open fifteen years? Plus eleven more… this man must be at least in his late fifties, most likely in his sixties… Quite remarkable. I assume the money is for some form of security. I presume the tricks have had their recent upsurge due to the change in ownership, then, to insure he gets his money. I doubt he would be pushing for Miss Daae to have such roles otherwise."

"Why is that?" Andre, the other manager, asked.

I knew that one. "She is very inexperienced on stage, projecting, especially the heavier roles."

"It could damage her voice," Irene added sternly. "Ensure she takes care of it. The woman has a gift."

During the carriage ride back to our villa, Irene lit one a lucifer and cigarette, content to watch the vile thing smoke away into cinders. "There are other things I declined to mention," she admitted with a sigh.

"Such as?" I asked. Irene flicked the smoking, loathsome device in her hand.

"This man is a genius," Irene started. "He knows the Opera by heart, is quite possibly obsessed with Miss Daae, and I doubt he truly was disfigured in the Commune."

I pushed the rather worrying conclusions out of mind for now. "Perhaps he was burned by shrapnel in the Commune?"

"No, the man I interviewed described his face clearly- to be frank, my first thought was leprosy, but I suppose that he could not manage his tricks half as well to be that severely ill. I suppose some sort of birth defect?"

I nodded. "I heard horrifying stories in my childhood of babies born who looked not human."

Godfrey, who was working on a paper, looked at me with a slightly amused expression. "So your taste for the macabre goes back to when you were young?"

I remembered the Ripper story and shuddered. "I prefer it without actually witnessing it, still." At least he could jest about our captivity, I suppose, even if Irene looked regretful.


End file.
